


5 Times Crowley and Aziraphale Kissed & 1 Time They Were on the Same Page About It

by cellostiel



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Drunken Kissing, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Trans Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 17:20:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20195884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellostiel/pseuds/cellostiel
Summary: "So?" Aziraphale prods. "How do we do this?" Crowley's corporeal heart decides that, instead of trying to stop completely, it wants to kick into overdrive."Um." he says, eloquently.~Crowley and Aziraphale keep kissing, and every time they do, through a series of misunderstandings and misdirections, Aziraphale walks away with the impression that it didn't mean anything. Crowley, as usual, only has himself to blame.





	5 Times Crowley and Aziraphale Kissed & 1 Time They Were on the Same Page About It

**Author's Note:**

> Some time around Monday I had the overwhelming urge to write Crowley and Aziraphale kissing throughout the ages, now it's Saturday and here we are with my longest Good Omens fic yet.
> 
> Please ignore any historical inaccuracies; I did so a bit of research for some parts of this, but the focus of this fic is very obviously not historical accuracy, so. Yeah.
> 
> Anyway PLEASE go listen to "Come With Me" by Chxrlotte she literally wrote a song about Good Omens/Aziraphale & Crowley and it's so good and I've had it on repeat for like 4 days now! I wrote most of this while listening to it so it'll be good to listen to while you read ;)

_ [Eden, 4004 B.C.] _

"Oh, Crawley-" Aziraphale turns to him, tilting his wing so they can meet gazes properly. "I- I suppose it may be rude to ask, but- why come and talk to me? Don't you… hate my kind?" 

Crowley decides not to point out that he used to _ be _ Aziraphale's kind - and not very long ago, at that. Instead, he gives the angel a considering look and decides, "No. Not really. Maybe a general distaste, but you seem alright so far." The rain starts to come down harder, and, only half-thinking about it, Crowley raises one of his own wings to cross with Aziraphale's and return the favor. Aziraphale smiles at him gratefully. "Not really anyone else to talk to around here." Crowley reasons, though it's more on autopilot than anything else. "The lions aren't exactly known for being chatty." 

"Ah, yes, I had noticed that." Aziraphale says. "Though I suppose they weren't made for conversation." 

"No." Crowley agrees. "They weren't. 'Sides, you seemed like someone worth talking to." He surprises himself with the honesty that comes through in that statement. Aziraphale looks at him in surprise, then a bashful smile blooms on his face.

"I… you as well. You know - for a demon." He doesn't mean for the demon comments to be rude; it's clear they're reminders for himself, and himself alone. Mustn't converse with The Enemy too casually, or else one might be _ tempted… _

Crowley smiles a slow, satisfied smile. "Why thank you." he says. "I try." The feeble guard Aziraphale had been trying to keep up crumbles as soon as he glances Crowley's way, and he quickly turns his head out towards the desert before them to hide yet another smile. 

Crowley likes this. He likes the nervous little stolen looks Aziraphale keeps sending his way, likes the spot of color he can see rising on the angel's cheeks, likes the way his own insides seem to be dancing about in something like _ excitement. _ It's all so new, and so thrilling, and he idly wonders if Aziraphale is feeling something similar, or if this is something only demons can feel. 

"Angel." Crowley says, not intending for it to come out as soft as it does, but not minding it, either. Aziraphale turns to look at him fully, eyes wide and bright and innocently curious. 

"Yes?" he says. Crowley leans in and carefully presses their lips together. He is, admittedly, not altogether sure _ why _ he does it. He just knows that he wants to, and that as a demon he is allowed (encouraged, even) to act on what he wants, so he does. Aziraphale tilts his head into the kiss, though it's more that he tilts his head in a curious manner and it just so happens to push his mouth more solidly against Crowley's. 

At length, Crowley pulls back, and finds himself a bit dizzy. Aziraphale blinks owlishly at him, seeming a bit dazed himself.

"What was that?" he asks.

"Dunno." Crowley admits. He can't put into words what prompted him to- to do what he just did, but he feels the need to justify it, so he says, "Saw the humans do something like that a while ago. Thought I'd see what it was all about." 

"I see." Aziraphale says, bringing a hand up to touch his own lips consideringly. "I think I heard Eve name it… I think she called it a 'kiss?'" 

"Sure." Crowley says, since he has no reason to argue. 

"It felt nice." Aziraphale decides.

"It did." Crowley agrees. Aziraphale meets his gaze, smiling softly.

"Those humans are very clever, aren't they?"

"They are." Crowley says, and turns to look out into the desert, no longer able to look directly at the angel. The 'kiss' was nice, and Aziraphale seemed to enjoy it, but Crowley gets the sense that it didn't do exactly what he had wanted. Not that he knows what that was in the first place. Regardless, there's an odd pit in his stomach, an uncomfortable weight telling him that something there went _ wrong. _

~

_ [Rome, 41 A.D.] _

Crowley has, perhaps, had one too many drinks. He's had a shithole of a decade, though, so sue him. 

Aziraphale is making it better. 

He's lagging a bit behind Crowley in number of drinks, but that's good, because it means he's giddy, but still coherent enough to watch Crowley with knowing amusement. Crowley wants to be known, he realizes. Quite desperately. Aziraphale still clings to some big misunderstandings about Crowley, but on the whole they haven't spent a lot of time together, so it's understandable. He's gotten close, though. Crowley wants to be known properly. He wants _ Aziraphale _ to know him properly.

"Angel," he says, leaning over the table and beckoning Aziraphale closer. Aziraphale bends to meet him in the middle of the table, his eyes shining with laughter. _ "Angel." _ Crowley repeats, trying to gather his thoughts. "Did you know. I can't see certain colors." Aziraphale blinks in surprise. Crowley didn't exactly mean to say _ that _ , but he can't remember what he _ was _ going to say, so it'll have to do. 

"You can't?" Aziraphale asks.

"I mean, I _ can _, it's just harder to tell some of them apart than it used to be. Like red. I don't really remember what red is supposed to look like anymore."

"Anymore?" Aziraphale echoes.

"Yeah, you know," Crowley waves his hand dismissively, says, "from before my eyes changed."

Aziraphale is staring at him, a complex emotion that Crowley is far too drunk to try deciphering on his face. "Your eyes changed?" he says, and Crowley doesn't like his tone. What made his tone change? He doesn't like Aziraphale sounding so… down. 

"Angels don't have snake eyes, do they?" Crowley mutters sullenly, fiddling with his cup. He doesn't want to talk about this anymore. He half-remembers what he'd wanted to say earlier, and perks up, saying, "You know I can split my tongue? Don't always _ do it _ because humans can be dumb, scared animals - s'why the glasses - but I _ can. _ Wanna see?"

Aziraphale looks torn. Then he gives in to his curiosity, saying, "May as well."

Crowley concentrates very hard on keeping a serious face as he motions Aziraphale closer. Aziraphale dutifully leans in, until their noses are almost brushing, and doesn't flinch when Crowley places a hand on his cheek. Some semi-functional part of Crowley's brain wonders if Aziraphale was expecting this (maybe even was _ hoping _ for this) as he bridges the gap and kisses Aziraphale soundly. Aziraphale's mouth opens just slightly as Crowley makes contact, just enough that it gives space for Crowley's tongue to slip inside. Aziraphale makes a soft noise - one that might be surprise, or might be something else entirely - as Crowley slides his tongue against Aziraphale's, splitting it and running it along the side of Aziraphale's so the angel can feel how it parts. 

Once Crowley is satisfied (which in this case is not the same as him feeling his point was made; no, _ that _ came and went a while ago) he pulls back, blinking a few times to bring Aziraphale's face into focus. Aziraphale has an unsteady look about him, almost like he snuck a few more drinks while Crowley wasn't looking. 

"Pretty cool, huh?" Crowley says, pretending that he's not horribly out of breath. Aziraphale nods absently. 

"Yes," he manages. "Yes, that was… yes." 

"Another round?" Crowley offers, picking up the jug of house brown. 

"Ah." Aziraphale shakes himself, then holds out his cup for Crowley to pour into. "Yes, please." Crowley manages a decent enough pour, then continues his success by only spilling a little as he fills his own cup before holding it out. 

"A toast." he declares. "To- uh- to the color red. Or- oysters. Yeah, oysters. Cheers." They tap their cups together, and Crowley knocks back his drink while Aziraphale sips his own drink at a more moderate pace. Crowley chooses to ignore the odd look that Aziraphale is regarding him with. 

(It is only about three hours later, once Aziraphale has finally departed and Crowley has decided to sober himself up, that Crowley realizes exactly what he's done. He then decides that this moment is better off never being spoken of again, and proceeds to do just that.)

~

_ [London, 1601 A.D.] _

"Crowley?" The demon looks up, mildly surprised to find Aziraphale sliding into the seat next to his at the bar. "You're still here?" 

"I've had other things to do around London." Crowley says, gesturing to the bartender for another glass. "You're back awfully quick." 

"Oh, it wasn't actually that complicated. A suggestion here, an implication there… The whole thing ended up taking care of itself." Aziraphale accepts his glass with a thankful nod.

"Here's to small miracles." Crowley says, clinking their glasses together with a smirk. Aziraphale gives him a look that could be exasperation if his mouth weren't fighting to suppress a smile. 

"Speaking of," Aziraphale says, "I hear _ Hamlet _ is drawing a much larger crowd these days." 

"It is." Crowley confirms, rather proud of it despite himself. "He has a new comedy out tomorrow night; something about mistaken identity and cross-dressing."

"Oh, right up your alley, then." Aziraphale says, unable to hold back a teasing smile. Crowley rests his head on a hand, endlessly fascinated by Aziraphale making jokes. Of course, Aziraphale quickly abandons the joke, going on to say, "Though I suppose, for us, it's not really 'cross-dressing' as we were made without the human concept of gender and for most angels and demons the whole thing is rather irrelevant, and aside from that you don't exactly tie yourself exclusively to one gender or another so it's less 'cross-dressing' for you and more just you enjoying presenting in different ways." Crowley catches himself smiling as he watches the angel prattle on. His angel does love to go _ on _ about things. "By the way," Aziraphale says, "I've been meaning to mention: those French dresses they've had the last century are very fetching on you." 

A grin spreads on Crowley's face, and he tilts towards Aziraphale, lowering his voice conspiratorially as he says, "Oh, you like when I wear those, do you?" Aziraphale flushes wonderfully. 

"What can I say," Aziraphale mutters into his cup, avoiding eye contact. "You look good in everything." 

"Careful, Angel," Crowley says, "or I might get the wrong idea about your intentions." Aziraphale chokes a little on his drink, and Crowley laughs into his hand.

"Oh, you are just so-! You-! You are a _ fiend. _" Aziraphale hisses, but he's more flustered than actually upset, Crowley can tell. 

"Like you haven't thought about it." Crowley teases, bumping his foot against Aziraphale's.

"I most certainly _ have not." _ Aziraphale says, in a tone very much resembling that of someone who most certainly _ has. _

"Admit it, Angel, you'd _ love _ to get a piece of this."

"I have no such desire for- for 'a piece' of _ any part _ of you! And- and frankly it is outrageous that you would even _ think _ that I- that an- an angel such as myself- that I would be _ tempted _ by something so… _ base." _

Crowley is feeling particularly wicked tonight, so he says, "If you're so sure, then prove it." 

Aziraphale stares. "Prove it? How, exactly, am I supposed to do that?"

"Kiss me." 

Aziraphale sputters. "How does _ that _ prove anything?" 

"Well," Crowley drawls, "if you can kiss me without it going further, then that's proof that you are above any temptation of the flesh that I could offer you."

Aziraphale considers this, his gaze flicking down to Crowley's mouth, then to the depths of his own drink. The angel could easily bring up the fact that they have kissed before, and that nothing happened either of those times, but he doesn't. Crowley is about to reveal the joke for what it was, satisfied with how long he's let the angel squirm, when Aziraphale turns to him and says, "Alright."

"What?"

"I said, alright. I will kiss you, and prove that I am not tempted by you in the least." 

Crowley's corporeal body seems to malfunction for several moments, because it stops breathing, its heart stutters, and it seems to struggle to regulate his temperature, given the sudden sweat on his palms.

Crowley has been acutely aware for many thousands of years how much he wants to kiss Aziraphale. It only took him observing a few generations of humans to get the whole kissing thing figured out, and he'd since then kept his inclinations towards the angel close to his chest (the incident in Rome notwithstanding). Flirting with the angel is fine and dandy, but actually kissing him? 

"So?" Aziraphale prods. "How do we do this?" Crowley's corporeal heart decides that, instead of trying to stop completely, it wants to kick into overdrive. 

"Um." he says, eloquently. 

"I've never… initiated a kiss." Aziraphale clarifies, like _ that _ is the thing tying up Crowley's tongue. "Do I…" He reaches out and cups Crowley's face, like Crowley did to him fifteen-hundred-odd years ago. Crowley goes very carefully still, watching as Aziraphale drops his gaze to Crowley's mouth, nods to himself in a determined manner, and leans in to press their lips together. 

Oh, this is… this is _ nice. _ Crowley's eyes fall shut, and he sinks into the feeling. Aziraphale is very warm, and he has a hand braced on Crowley's knee, and Crowley never wants this to end. He wants to kiss Aziraphale more than once every few thousands years, wants Aziraphale to pull him closer, wants to show Aziraphale his split tongue again. 

Aziraphale pulls away, and it's only Aziraphale's hand on his cheek that keeps Crowley from chasing after him. Crowley's eyes open as Aziraphale removes his hands, and he watches Aziraphale smooth down his clothes, visibly trying to compose himself.

"See?" Aziraphale says. "Not tempted at all."

"Right." Crowley says, still trying to recover. They stare at each other awkwardly for a few long, torturous moments, then both turn to their drinks and drain most of their cups. Aziraphale clears his throat.

"So. Shakespeare is premiering a new play tomorrow?" Aziraphale says, eyes planted firmly on one of the shelves behind the bar. 

"He is." Crowley confirms, staring down one of the bottles on the middle shelf. "Did you… want to go see it?"

"Together?"

"Should be more crowded than _ Hamlet _ was. Doubt anyone would notice." 

"... I suppose I can fit it into my schedule."

"Right." Crowley says.

"Right." Aziraphale echoes.

"Wanna order something stronger?" Crowley offers.

"I thought you'd never ask." Aziraphale says, already waving down the bartender.

~

_ [Paris, 1791 A.D.] _

Aziraphale should not look as endearing as he does, sitting in stolen revolutionary clothes and tucking into crêpes like they're simultaneously the best food he's ever had and the last meal he ever _ will _ have. Despite protests of being a holy being and that he is not in any way anywhere near Crowley's level, Aziraphale is a bit of a glutton. Crowley likes that about him; he'd be boring if he was a _ complete _ stick in the mud like the other angels. Luckily for both of them, the mud around Aziralhale's stick is just loose enough that Crowley can pull the angel this way and that, slowly working him free from the rigid rules of conduct that Heaven has told him to follow. A surprising amount of the time, Aziraphale is more than happy to claw out of the mud himself - given adequate opportunity to make a show of 'resisting,' of course.

"Oh, Crowley, you really should try some of this." Aziraphale says, for the upteenth time this evening, holding out a bite of crêpe on his fork. Crowley is nursing a glass of wine, enjoying watching Aziraphale much more than he would enjoy eating the stuff himself.

"I'm fine." he says, also for the upteenth time. Aziraphale pulls an expression that Crowley is tempted to call a _ pout _ and says, 

"But they're so _ good. _ Just a bite."

A nasty idea tugs Crowley's mouth into a smirk, and he quickly pulls it into a fake scowl, relenting with an, "Alright, _ fine." _ Aziraphale grins, victorious, and holds the fork out for Crowley to take. However, Crowley puts his hand on Aziraphale's, turning it slightly so that when he leans forward, he can wrap his mouth around the tines of the fork and slide off with the piece of crêpe on his tongue, all without the fork ever leaving Aziraphale's hand. Sitting back, Crowley wipes his mouth with his thumb and watches with an immense amount of satisfaction as Aziraphale processes what just happened, color high on his cheeks.

_ "Crowley!" _ he eventually gasps, scandalized as he clutches his fork-wielding hand to his chest. 

"You wanted me to try a bite." Crowley says innocently. "Didn't specify how. You're right, though; they're very good."

Aziraphale's mouth works as he tries to think of how best to reprimand Crowley. Crowley, for his part, rests his head on his hand and enjoys the show.

The angel finally gives up on a verbal chastising and instead opts for simply giving him a glowering look. Crolwey smiles back, unbothered. 

By the time they've settled their bill and made their way out to stand under the awning, idling in the hopes of the rain lightening up, Aziraphale seems to have dropped any irritation he'd been harboring, given how close he's standing to Crowley. The weather shows no signs of clearing up any time soon, and Crowley is debating whether it would be better to Miracle a break in the downpour or just suck it up and make a break for his carriage through the rain. Then Aziraphale says, soft enough that Crowley almost doesn't hear it: "Thank you again. For earlier."

"I can afford to cover the bill for a few crêpes, Angel." he says, a bit absentmindedly. "It's no skin off my nose." 

"No, um," Aziraphale clears his throat, tangling his fingers into a rather complicated-looking shape. "Before that. In the dungeon." Crowley stiffens, so Aziraphale hurries to add, "I know you don't want me to say that. But I just wanted to reiterate how grateful I am that you… were in the neighborhood." 

"Don't mention it." Crowley says. Aziraphale goes to continue, but Crowley cuts him off with a, "No, _ really. _ Don't mention it. To anyone." 

"Right." Aziraphale says, nodding to himself. "You know I… I do wish, sometimes, that we didn't always have to be so… _ cautious. _ I'd quite like to be able to just… go to dinner with you. Or see a show. Whenever we want: not just when our jobs happen to bring us together. Despite everything, I… I quite enjoy your company, Crowley."

The way Aziraphale says it, it drips with meaning beyond the definitions of the words. The intensity of the emotion scares Crowley, so he does what he does best: he throws a wrench into the works.

Aziraphale gasps into Crowley's mouth, his back pressing into the brick of the building as Crowley leans over him, pinning him there. Crowley skims his hand from Aziraphale's cheek to the side of his neck, tilting his head to kiss the angel deeply. Aziraphale makes a small, soft sound, and his mouth opens very willingly under the pressure of Crowley's tongue. Crowley notes, as he slips his other hand to the small of Aziraphale's back to pull him closer, that he may be getting carried away with this. But Aziraphale is so soft under his hands, and he tastes so sweet from the crêpes, and the way his hands grip Crowley's upper arms like a lifeline is proving to be addicting. 

He's honestly not sure how far he would have ended up pushing the kiss if a carriage hadn't come barrelling past, spraying water onto the sidewalk far enough that it hits Crowley solidly in the back of the legs, making him jerk away from Aziraphale in surprise. Aziraphale looks up at him with big, questioning eyes, and Crowley scrambles for the flimsy excuse that popped into his head just before he began kissing the angel. 

"Uh." he says. "That- that's what you get for getting all sappy on me, Angel. How- how do you like _ that?" _

"I…" Aziraphale draws in a shaky breath, eyes dropping to Crowley's mouth. "I, um… I think I…" There's something raw in his expression, like he's about to say something unbearably honest, and Crowley panics, his carriage Miraculously pulling up behind him.

"Oh, look, there's our ride - ah, bless it, I think I forgot something inside. You go ahead; tell the driver where you want to go, and he'll take you. I'll have him swing around for me later."

"Um-" Aziraphale starts, but Crowley is already shoving through the door into the restaurant. As the door swings shut behind him, he can just hear Aziraphale's quiet, unsure "Alright…?" 

~

_ [London, 1941 A.D.] _

Aziraphale keeps looking at him. Or, well, he keeps _ trying to, _ only to chicken out and quickly dart his eyes back to the road. He clearly has something he wants to say to Crowley, but is having trouble working up the nerve to actually say it. 

Crowley pulls to a stop in front of the bookshop, and spends a few moments just looking at it, taking it in. It's been about a hundred years since he's been so close to it, after all. He's driven past a few times, kept an eye on it (and on Aziraphale), but since their disastrous conversation in the park, Crowley thought it better to give the angel some space. 

"Would you like to come in?" Aziraphale offers, an odd, fragile edge to his voice. "The least I can do is treat you to a drink."

"Sure." Crowley says, because he's missed Aziraphale more than he cares to admit. 

Inside, Crowley wanders around the shop while Aziraphale roots around for a few bottles of wine and some glasses. The shop looks the same as it did a century ago, with slight alterations - such as some unfamiliar books lining the shelves, and a mechanical cash register from the turn of the century sitting on the counter. Taking off his hat and setting it on the counter, Crowley idly flips open Aziraphale's record book where it lies next to the register, and is greatly amused to see that, since the last time he checked around 1853, Aziraphale has made a grand total of eight sales. Open for a hundred and forty-one years, and he hasn't even filled up the first page yet. 

"Here we are." Aziraphale says, setting out his findings on his desk. Crowley saunters over and takes the corkscrew from him, picking up one of the bottles to start work on opening it. "Ah, thank you." Despite his words, Aziraphale's mouth twists in an unhappy manner, and he casts about for something to do with himself. 

"Bookshop's still standing." Crowley notes. "Business still good?"

"Well, it has dwindled a bit lately. You know, what with the war and all that." 

"Of course." Crowley eyes Aziraphale, who has decided to busy himself with checking on the books from the church. "They haven't tried to give you another medal, have they?" 

"Hm? Oh! No- no, they haven't. They're still convinced that I'm the only one who can properly thwart you."

"Good." Crowley's not sure what he would have done if Heaven had whisked Aziraphale away while they weren't talking. 

Crowley pops the bottle open, and he doesn't feel like waiting for the wine to breathe, so he takes the glasses and pours one for each of them. Aziraphale watches him silently, one of his prophecy books in his hands. Crowley holds out a glass, and Aziraphale accepts it with a small word of thanks.

"I would ask how you've been," Aziraphale says, watching his glass as he tilts it thoughtfully, "but that seems rather banal at this point." 

"Wouldn't be much of a conversation, either." Crowley acknowledges. "Mostly slept through the last half of the century. Got up a few times to keep up appearances and use the loo, but other than that…" 

"Ah." Aziraphale presses his lips together, takes a sip of his wine. "I learned to dance." he blurts, apropos of nothing. Crowley stares.

"You what?" He can't have heard right. 

"I learned to dance." Aziraphale repeats. 

"... thought angels couldn't dance." 

"Well, this one can. I learned the gavotte." 

A smile eases its way onto Crowley's face, and he sprawls out on one of Aziraphale's chairs, thoroughly entertained by this turn of events. Just when he thinks he has the angel pinned down, he goes and does something like this. "And what, exactly, is a 'gavotte'?" 

To his surprise, Aziraphale _ blushes _, quickly averting his gaze. "Oh, you know." he says. "Just one of those court dances people tend to do. Figured I should probably learn one, in case I need to inspire another queen or something."

"Never stopped you before." Crowley says, looking him over. Aziraphale is hiding something, and being painfully obvious about it. "Five centuries of awkwardly standing to the side and making up ludicrous excuses for why you can't dance, and _ now _ you decide to do something about it." 

"I've been trying to… get out more. Experience more of the local culture. Humans are very fascinating. Some of the things they've been coming up with lately…" 

"Who even had the patience to teach you?" Crowley wonders. "I imagine it can't have been an _ easy _ task." 

Aziraphale huffs. "If you must know, it was a man named Albert. Albert Victor." 

_ No. _ "Not _ Prince _ Albert Victor? Duke of Clarence and Avondale?" Aziraphale looks at him, eyes wide with panic. 

"You… know of him?" 

Crowley has a very vivid memory of getting up sometime in the 1880's to be seen doing a quick temptation, and running into Prince Albert behind a discreet gentlemen's club, where the man had flattered him with praise and lingering looks. Crowley pulled the prince in for a deep, searing kiss, and informed him that he would be far, _ far _ out of his depths with Crowley, then took his leave, a smug smile on his face and a wolf whistle following after him.

"Yeah." Crowley says. "Met him once. Nice man."

"He was." Aziraphale agrees, shifting uneasily. 

"Where exactly did you learn this dance?" Crowley suspects he already knows, but he can't quite believe it. Aziraphale wouldn't _ actually _ patron a place like that, would he?

"Oh, you know… some club where they danced. I forget the name." Aziraphale is a terrible liar. Or maybe Crowley just knows his tells too well. 

"Right…" Crowley says, bringing his glass up to take a considering sip. So. Aziraphale went to a gay club. Frequently enough to pick up a dance and catch the eye of Prince Albert Victor. He wonders… what else did the angel get up to while he was there? "Did he kiss you, too?"

"What?" Aziraphale yelps. "What- why would you- what do you mean, 'too'?" 

"I kissed him outside the club once." Crowley says, waving his hand dismissively. "So? Did you two kiss?"

Aziraphale mutters something under his breath that sounds like "Lord, save me" and takes a long drink of his wine before, at length, replying, "Yes. A few times. Briefly. It's… part of the dance. Perfectly chaste, you see, but… yes."

Crowley is morbidly curious. "Ever kiss him outside of the dance?"

Aziraphale could very easily tell him to fuck off, that it's none of his business, but instead he squirms in his seat and admits, "Once. He, well… he proposed that we might retire to a private room, but I politely declined. He informed me that I would be missing out, and… we kissed. To show me exactly what I would be missing out _ on _, I think. I was very flattered, but, well, you know."

"Can't be tempted." Crowley fills in. Aziraphale pulls an odd face.

"Something like that."

"What would actually happen, if you were to give in to that kind of temptation?" Crowley wonders. "No one seems to care about you eating, or sleeping. Suppose those can be written off as blending in, but does sex and all that really count as a sin if you aren't doing it in excess?"

Aziraphale is staring very determinedly into his wine. "This body is a holy vessel. We are not meant to… _ sully it _ with something like that. If it were two angels together, it might be different, but angels don't… _ have _ those urges."

Something about his tone sounds… ashamed, almost. Like he's reprimanding himself with the words. Something in Crowley's chest tugs at the thought.

"Most angels are stuck-up prudes who probably don't even bother giving themselves genitals to feel anything _ with _ in the first place." Crowley says. "They also don't appreciate a good book, or a fine glass of wine, or a properly made souffle. Their loss." Aziraphale glances at him, a cautious but hopeful look in his eye.

"It is?"

"Humans have so many fascinating things unique to them." Crowley reasons. "Anyone who bothers being up here more than a few decades would have to be a complete fucking idiot not to see that and appreciate it." The start of a smile tugs at Aziraphale's mouth.

"I suppose you have a point." he says. "Souffles _ are _ quite good."

"See? Nothing to feel guilty over. You're just appreciating everything that the Almighty's creation has to offer."

Aziraphale's smile blooms fully, and he says - softly, _ reverently _ \- "Thank you, Crowley."

Unholy Heaven, he's gorgeous. Crowley knew this, of course, has been aware of it for millennia, but sometimes Aziraphale will do something to remind him, and Crowley will be absolutely _ floored _.

Before he realizes what he's doing, he's gotten up and is backing Aziraphale up against his desk, haphazardly pushing his glass onto it before cupping Aziraphale's face with both hands and kissing him. Something hits the floor with a heavy thud, a lighter clatter with a sloshing sound following, and then Aziraphale's hands are fisting in the back of Crowley's coat. 

This is a bad idea. Monumentally so. The other times, Crowley was able to come up with an excuse; a way to dismiss the situation, however flimsily. This time, he has nothing. He wanted to kiss Aziraphale, and that was it. He can't even come up with an excuse _ during _ the kiss, because his head is filled with distracting things like 'Aziraphale smells good, even when he's still got a light coating of rubble on him. Smells like home.' and 'Oh, it wasn't just the crêpes last time - he _ always _ tastes this sweet.' Aziraphale does not help matters at all when one of his hands finds its way up to bury itself in Crowley's hair. Crowley lets out a sound he'd prefer not to put a name to lest he die of embarrassment, and deepens the kiss. 

Never in his nearly six-thousand years of life did he ever, _ ever _ imagine he'd find himself snogging a Principality in a bookshop, his body slotting against the angel's like it was meant to be there, and he _ especially _ never imagined Aziraphale would respond by holding onto him tightly and kissing him back. But here he is, and Aziraphale is giving as good as he's getting, and Crowley could melt right here, burst into flames, discorporate entirely, and go out as a happy, _ happy _ demon. 

Crowley shifts, accidentally pressing his thigh further against Aziraphale, and the angel lets out a soft moan, his hands on Crowley gripping tighter. Crowley breaks the kiss in surprise, staring with disbelief at the open _ want _ and _ longing _ in Aziraphale's hooded eyes. _ Fuck. _

With a loud clearing of his throat, Crowley disentangles himself from Aziraphale, backing up until he's a safe distance away. "Right." he says, ignoring how visibly out of breath and flushed Aziraphale is. "See what I mean?" He's not entirely sure what he's saying, but bullshit is second-nature to him, so he lets go and hopes some part of his subconscious knows what it's doing. "No Hellfire, no angry archangels, nothing. You're not going to be Damned for living a little, Angel." 

Aziraphale is frowning. "You were just… proving a point again?" 

"Obviously." Crowley says, doing his level best to seem calm and unbothered. "Why else would I kiss you?"

"Right." Aziraphale says, looking down at his hands and gripping them together tight enough to turn his knuckles white. "Obviously." 

"I should, uh, I should get going." Crowley says, backing towards the door. "Lots of… demonic things to get up to, souls to secure for Lord Satan - you know how it is." 

"Yes. No, of course. Go do your job." 

Crowley pauses as he retrieves his hat, hesitating as he takes in Aziraphale's hunched, dejected figure by the desk. "Angel." Crowley says. Aziraphale looks up at him, and Crowley decides not to name the painful emotion he sees there. "It was good seeing you." He says it earnestly, trying to convey the things he's too much of a coward to say outright. _I missed you._ _I'm sorry._

Aziraphale softens. "It was good seeing you as well, Crowley. Drive safe." 

Crowley nods and leaves the bookshop, and when he gets in his Bentley, he sits for a minute, just breathing and trying to convince himself that he didn't just completely ruin whatever semblance of companionship and friendship that he and Aziraphale have managed to scrape together over the past six-thousand years. Crowley has seen empires fall in the span of a few days; he knows all too well how easy it is to reduce centuries of effort to rubble. He likes to think that what they have is strong enough to survive a few of Crowley's fuck-ups, but he definitely pushed too far tonight. How long until he pushes so far that Aziraphale steps away for good?

He starts the engine and pulls away from the bookshop, resolving to get a better grip on his impulses around Aziraphale. The last thing he wants is to lose him again.

(Inside the bookshop, Aziraphale watches Crowley go with a wretched feeling twisting in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye he spots his spilled wine inching a bit too close to the dropped prophecy book, and scrambles to save the book from a nasty stain. Oh, he'll have to get the flooring replaced; even if he Miracles the wine out, he'll always know it was there. He'd rather have as few embarrassing reminders of tonight as possible. 

He regards the book in his hands, playing over the night's events in his head. His mind catches on when they were stood in the rubble of the church, when Crowley oh so casually handed Aziraphale his books with nary a scratch to be found. Crowley can be rude and a bastard and in certain moments even downright _ cruel, _ but he can also be so wonderfully, endlessly _ kind. _

Aziraphale hugs the book to his chest, telling himself that the fuzzy, glowy feeling bubbling up in him is just gratitude and not… anything else. Anything else wouldn't just be dangerous to feel, it would be _ stupid. _ And Aziraphale is not stupid. 

He looks up as the Bentley's engine roars to life and drives away, and admits to himself that, while he is not stupid by nature, he is definitely prone to moments of stupidity. Like letting Crowley play with his heart and all but thanking him for it. How utterly foolish.)

~

_ [London, 2019 A.D.] _

It's over. It's finally, _ finally _ over. They're _ free. _

Aziraphale rambles as they walk down the street together, hands moving animatedly, and Crowley follows quietly along and listens, soaking the moment in, because now he _ can. _ He can't remember the last time he felt this… this _ light, _ this _ good. _ For the first time in forever, there isn't a voice in the back of his head reminding him not to get too cozy, not to let his guard down, not to let Hell find out about Aziraphale. Crowley is at peace. What a marvel.

Looking at Aziraphale, the angel looks happy. Truly, openly, unabashedly _ happy. _ He doesn't have to hide himself anymore, doesn't have to worry about not being 'angelic' enough for his superiors, doesn't have to pretend and micromanage himself and constantly worry about being found out. He can be everything that he always has been, and he can enjoy doing so. Crowley has never seen anything so beautiful. 

"Crowley, are you alright?"

Crowley blinks at Aziraphale, confused. "Hm?"

"You're very quiet." Aziraphale points out.

"Just listening. Go on with what you were saying - something about macarons?" 

Aziraphale presses his mouth into a tight line, and Crowley slows to a stop, putting a hand on Aziraphale's arm. They've reached the bookshop, and the street around them is empty as twilight turns to dusk. "Angel?"

"Crowley, I- there is something I've been wanting to say to you." Aziraphale chances a glance at him, then jerks his gaze away again. "And, well, now seems a good a time as any." 

Crowley waits. He can see Aziraphale building up the nerve, convincing himself that he has the confidence to actually say what he wants to. Crowley finds himself holding his breath, certain that whatever it is that Aziraphale is trying to say, it is going to _ change _ things. 

"I love you, Crowley." 

What?

As Crowley stares, mouth working like a confused fish, Aziraphale barrels on, "And I know you don't feel the same; I know that you have never looked at me that way, and that you never will. But I… I wanted you to know. I love you, Crowley, with everything that I am, and I have done so for ages." 

Crowley's corporeal body isn't cooperating. He wants to move, to speak, to do _ something, _ but his limbs are frozen and his lungs are empty. Aziraphale looks at him with a sad, resigned smile. 

"That's all I wanted to say. Good night, Crowley." He steps towards the shop, and Crowley's body suddenly springs back into action, propelling him forward to grab at Aziraphale. Aziraphale gets a confused utterance of Crowley's name halfway out of his mouth before Crowley cuts him off with a kiss. Aziraphale stumbles slightly at the impact, and Crowley clings to him, pouring everything he feels but can't say into the kiss, trying desperately to make Aziraphale _ see. _

Aziraphale takes him by the shoulders and gently pries him away. "Crowley." he says, and no, no, that is not at all the tone or expression that Crowley wants from him. "If this is another one of your- your _ points, _ then-"

"No." Crowley holds on to Aziraphale by his lapels, struggling to find the right thing to say, because he needs, just once in his life, for things to go _ right. _ "No, I- Angel, I want-" Damn- bless- _ fuck _ it all, why can't he say it? "I need- I need you to understand." He's shaking, he realizes, as he repeats, "I need you to _ understand. _" 

Aziraphale's expression gentles. "Understand what, Crowley?" 

Crowley bows under the weight of it all, resting his head against Aziraphale's shoulder and holding on to him for dear life. "It was never to make a point. It was never to trick you, or make fun of you, or-" He shudders, says, "I just wanted- Angel- _ Aziraphale, _ I- I _ wanted." _

"Oh." Aziraphale breathes. "Oh, my dear…" His hands move, one resting lightly on Crowley's back while the other threads its fingers through his hair. "My dear Crowley, I wish you had just _ said _ something." 

Crowley buries his face in Aziraphale's shoulder, murmuring what might be an apology. Aziraphale pets his hair, and eventually Crowley admits, "Kept getting scared. Sorry." 

With gentle nudges, Aziraphale coaxes Crowley to lift his head and look at him. Gingerly, he slides Crowley's glasses off his face and folds them, hanging them in the vee of Crowley's shirt. Then he cups Crowley's face with both hands and presses their foreheads together.

"Crowley," he breathes, stroking a thumb over Crowley's cheek. "May I… that is, would you mind if I…" Aziraphale pauses, takes a deep, steadying breath, and says, like a confession, "I want to kiss you." Crowley can only nod, and Aziraphale doesn't need to be told twice. Crowley half-expects a delicate, careful kiss like the one in that bar in the 1600's, but Aziraphale crashes their mouths together without restraint, kissing him fiercely. Crowley makes a soft, desperate sound, pressing against Aziraphale until they're flush together. Aziraphale wastes no time in licking into Crowley's mouth, drinking him in like a man dying of thirst. 

Crowley's hands find their way beneath Aziraphale's coat, resting over his waistcoat at the small of his back. Aziraphale returns the favor by tangling a hand in Crowley's hair and slipping a hand under Crowley's shirt to rest on his hip. The contact of Aziraphale's warm fingertips on his cool skin has Crowley hissing, kissing Aziraphale with even more fervor. 

When Aziraphale tugs slightly at his hair, Crowley decides that is _ it, _ and breaks the kiss to murmur into Aziraphale's ear, "Take me upstairs." Aziraphale shivers, and pulls him back in for a quick, heated kiss before stepping away, only to tug Crowley by the hand along with him. 

(It doesn't go as smoothly as either had hoped (or fantasized about, for that matter), what with tripping over half-shed clothes, bungling for the proper preparative materials, awkwardly conjuring some with a Miracle when none are to be found, an even more awkward conversation about what will go where, elbows and noses bumping together, knees and limbs getting sore… basically, their first time ends up being rather _ human. _

They find themselves laughing together for no apparent reason, basking in each other's presence and, despite the stumbles, indescribably _ happy. _ They share a kiss, soft and loving and joyous, and without having to speak, mutually agree that this is perfect.)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on Twitter @cellostielwrite if you wanna check it out!! https://twitter.com/cellostielwrite
> 
> tysm for reading!
> 
> Edit: FORGOT TO INCLUDE THIS for any of you wondering what the fuck the medal comment is about, it's based on a deleted scene where Crowley saves Aziraphale from being transferred back to Heaven with his wily ways: https://221blilli.tumblr.com/post/185506986009/im-not-saying-that-we-were-robbed-im-just


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